


Ain't Too Proud To Beg

by tumtatumtum



Series: Cowboys & Russians [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Boys in Love...eventually, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotionally Repressed, Erotic Bathing, Explicit Sexual Content, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Friends to Lovers, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, M/M, Praise Kink, Sexual Content, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, but then it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 05:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6040375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumtatumtum/pseuds/tumtatumtum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Napoleon wants to do is beg for Illya to have him.  Now all he has to do is convince Illya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Ain't Too Proud To Beg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509596) by [blakjc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakjc/pseuds/blakjc)



 

“It doesn’t. Have. To match.”

 

Illya is glaring at his temporary-but-still-frustrating partner in the middle of the high-end fashion boutique. He grinds his teeth, a habit he has developed since meeting this excuse for an agent. Napoleon Solo- debonair man of action. The epitome of the charm, flair and charisma seen in every spy movie or novel that would get most men killed in real life. Not a man made for this kind of work, not like Illya. He makes Illya’s blood boil with an offhand comment, a small gesture or raised eyebrow.

 

Illya has never had a strong hold on his temper.

 

Luckily, Gaby comes out looking stunning but pissed at the whole situation. Illya is grateful for both the distraction and Solo’s exit.

 

His fingers had been starting to twitch.

 

\------------------

 

Illya does not understand why the universe seems to shit on him so frequently, and he is also no longer surprised. Of course the singularly most frustrating man he’s ever met, the paradigm of Western decadence that Illya despises, would be assigned to him while he is being “permanently loaned from the KGB”.

 

The tremors have gotten worse now.

 

Not his temper. Surprisingly, that has improved. Perhaps it has something to do with no longer having higher officers constantly attempting to provoke him. Perhaps it is having a handler who clearly cares about his assets (Waverly’s infatuation with Gaby is both adorable and advantageous to Illya). Perhaps it is the fact that Illya is no longer surrounded by buffoons, but by a man and a woman of sharp wit who tease, sass and save him on a regular basis.

 

The woman is not the problem. Illya has grown quite fond of his little Chop Shop girl, and perhaps in another life it would have worked. He cedes the attentions of Gaby to Waverly, something that does not go unnoticed by Solo.

 

Solo says nothing, but quirks his lips upward and Illya feels his hands start to tremble.

 

He knows that they do not tremble in anger now. But he doesn’t know what to call the emotion. Anger is there, but there’s also irritation, discontentment, and a burning desire to get his hands on Solo and just _press_ until Cowboy wasn’t so put together.

 

Illya doesn’t examine this emotion too closely. It will only get him into trouble. He puts mental duck-tape on the escaping emotion that is ‘Napoleon Solo’ and moves on.

 

The problem with repressing your feelings in such a manner is that the problem is not actually fixed. Air is escaping at all times, and sooner or later- BANG.

 

For Illya, the bang was both metaphorical and literal.

 

BANG. A shot whizzes by Solo’s head, exploding plaster near his Cowboy’s face. Solo barely blinks, but Illya sees _red_. He gets up from where he is, crouched behind a crate of priceless antiques and fires off 5 perfectly aimed shots. 5 THRUSH agents go down, either dead or near to it. Napoleon quirks an eyebrow and Illya feels himself lose a bit of his remaining composure.

 

“Have you been practicing without me, Peril?”

 

No. Illya has not been practicing without Napoleon. Three times a week they have target practice, and despite Illya’s best efforts they are currently tied. The bet is for Illya’s favorite conductor’s hat, and Illya will not lose. Napoleon has threatened to burn it.

 

Illya doesn’t say a word, just busts down the door with a solid kick. He stomps out of the basement and drags Napoleon by the lapels of his jacket. When Cowboy protests that he’s wrinkling the suit, Illya just twists his fists harder. Good. He wants Cowboy flushed, feeling anger. He wants Cowboy feeling as out of control as he does.

 

They get about 10 blocks away before Illya feels they are secure enough. He throws Napoleon into a dark alleyway. Napoleon catches himself against the wall with the palms of his hands and hisses at the sting.

 

“Careful, Peril. The bad guys are out there, remember?”

 

“Shut. Mouth.”

 

Napoleon realizes all too late that Illya is actually furious, and before he can make his escape he is spun around and shoved back against the brick wall. His hands are lifted and pinned at the wrist above his head, and Illya’s other hand goes to his face. Illya gives him a light slap that is more affronting than painful. Napoleon stares at him, completely dumbfounded.

 

“You think- you think this is _game_. You think you can charm way out of every situation, that you do not almost lose your life every. Single. Mission.”

 

On the last 3 words of the sentence, Illya gives Napoleon’s face more light slaps. They’re almost love taps for him, but they make Napoleon groan, so Illya presses on.

 

“ _Preening_ , insufferable man. Walk into room and try to seduce baroness, even though you knew, you KNEW she had made you.”

 

Illya grabs Napoleon’s chin in his hand, and Napoleon gasps at the feeling of those calloused fingers on his face. Illya’s hands are so big that while his thumb holds Napoleon’s chin, his fingers are splayed over Napoleon’s cheek and his pinky digs into that wonderful spot under Napoleon’s ear. He’s never seen Illya like this, and Napoleon likes to imagine no one else has either. It’s like the real Illya is finally before him, and Napoleon feels himself weak at the knees at the sight.

 

His Peril is breathtaking. The feeling of being held and helpless under this man has Napoleon tingling in all the right places, and he feels the swelling of genuine interest in a potential partner he has not experienced in a long time.

 

He can’t remember the last time he got this hard so fast.

 

Illya, seemingly oblivious to Napoleon’s plight, continues,

 

“Need everyone to admire you, no? Vain man, unless someone is telling you how _pretty_ you are, you are upset.”

 

Illya’s hand leaves Napoleon’s face and grabs a handful of Napoleon’s perfectly quaffed hair, digging his fingers in to the soft black locks and wrenching. Napoleon is genuinely embarrassed at the aching keen that comes out of his throat at that. He’s always had a thing for having his hair pulled.

 

“You, you are slut for it. Someone to suck your cock, someone to fuck, and you lose head. You would crawl on your knees, _begging_ for it. What would you do, for one bit of praise?”

 

Illya leans in then, and though Napoleon knows he’s trying to be menacing by lowering his voice the tone and proximity to Napoleon’s ear makes the moment feel intimate. Napoleon can start to feel his blood hum warm, can feel the world fade away and narrow down to Illya’s hands on his body and the length of Illya’s torso pressed against him. Illya’s voice is deep and rasping when he grist out,

 

“How would you let someone _use_ you?”

 

Napoleon moans again, more wantonly than before and his knees honest-to-God buckle. Illya manages to catch him roughly, and slams his partner back against the wall. Napoleon looks up at Illya, mouth open and panting and Illya stares down in anger before leaning in again and-

 

Illya stops. Right before Napoleon’s lips, and Napoleon’s eyes widen but he doesn’t say a word. He’s finally waiting patiently for something, and if Illya was not having a moment of internal panic he would appreciate his handiwork. As it is, he finally realizes the full nature of their interactions up until this point.

 

What would it look like, if someone caught them now? 2 men having a quarrel, or two forbidden lovers? The thought makes Illya jerk back, letting Napoleon go abruptly. Napoleon sags to the ground with a startled sound, his ass hitting the pavement in an undignified manner. He looks up at Illya and gapes a little, eyes blurry with what Illya realizes is lust. It is at that precise moment that Illya realizes they’re both hard, Illya achingly so, and he could sink to the ground with Napoleon and _devour him_ -

 

Illya straightens and turns, heads quickly to the end of the alley. He spends more time than necessary making sure they haven’t been followed, and gives a curt ‘All clear’ when he deems enough time has passed. His heart is beating wildly in his chest. Illya does not understand why it is doing that.

 

“Right behind you, Peril.” Comes the cheeky yet suggestive reply from Solo, whose voice is noticeably lower. Illya nods but does not look back as he starts to weave their path back to the safe house. He doesn’t look at Napoleon for the rest of the night, so he misses exactly how Napoleon stares at him. Eyebrow quirked, of course.

 

\------------------

 

It’s like some terrible switch has been flipped, and every dark feeling Illya has felt towards Napoleon is now horribly illuminated.

 

While Illya was once irritated by Napoleon’s seemingly never-ending parade of sexual conquests, now he recognizes the unshakable tick in his fingers that signals _jealousy_. He glares at the women who leave Napoleon’s bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, parked outside the Napoleon’s door like a hulking bodyguard. Their eyes widen and they scamper away. One even apologizes, but that makes Illya glare even harder.

 

Napoleon will usually saunter into the doorway after a minute or two, clad in a robe and sex-tussled hair. He’ll smirk and sip from his coffee cup, then invite Illya in for breakfast and the morning debriefing. Illya will follow him in, close the door with a silent click, and not say a word for an hour. Napoleon will make them both a delectable omelet and they will eat in electric silence. Napoleon will begin to squirm under Illya’s gaze and he’ll break first, every time.

 

“I’m sorry, Illya.”

 

Illya says nothing. Acknowledging the apology means there’s something to apologize for. That there’s something between them that demands it. Illya cannot bring himself to do so.

 

“Please, Illya. I’m sorry.”

 

Silence persists. Napoleon will continue to whine, continue to plead. Until eventually…

 

“Do you want me to beg?”

 

And that is too much. Every time, Illya will feel his gut clench and his heart tighten. He’ll shove himself out of his chair and hastily clear the table, stacking the plates in the sink and going about cleaning them in a hasty manner. Then it is Napoleon’s turn to sit in silence, until he eventually gets tired of listening to a large Russian passively-aggressively do the dishes and goes to change clothes.

 

By the time he emerges from the bedroom, armed in his finest suit, Napoleon is back to normal. By the time Illya puts the last dish in the drying rack, Illya can pretend he is too. That everything is normal.

 

\--------

 

The problem with seeing things as they really are is that it makes ignoring them practically impossible. This is especially true when they are wearing the most scintillating bathing suit.

 

They’re in Brazil in Rio de Janero, investigating an ex-Nazi war criminal and the illegal importation of oranges. And cocaine. Besides world-wide suffering, the man they’re investigating likes to sunbath on one of the nicest hotel beaches. Their orders are to stake him out and wait until he makes contact with the international dealers, THRUSH. It’s all very straightforward, but Illya is currently finding it very hard to concentrate.

 

“It’s a speedo, Peril. It’s what the Americans are wearing these days. You should try it, the flexibility in this attire is liberating.”

 

“Does not look liberating, Cowboy.”

 

Napoleon gives an almost feral grin and visibly preens under Illya’s attentions. Gaby settles down to sunbath next to Napoleon, already looking tan and resplendent in her cherry red bikini and matching sunglasses. She should be the one Illya steals looks at from under his sunglasses, not the American peacock. His sunglasses appear to not be doing the trick, however, as Napoleon will turn to him every once in awhile and quirk his eyebrow.

 

When he stretches for the fifth time, Illya drains the last of his drink and stands.

 

“Target is heading back to hotel. I will follow from distance and report back.”

 

“I’ll come with. Much less obvious to have two people following a mark than one. One person is undoubtedly a creep, while two might be taking an amorous stroll.”

 

Illya grits his teeth and gives a nod. Napoleon gets up and makes a show of brushing off his chest, then grins and saunters along with Illya towards the hotel.

 

“Have fun, boys. Oh, and I’ll take a refill.” Gaby singsongs, unrepentantly watching the two of them walk away. She really does wish Illya would take Napoleon’s suggestion about the speedo.

 

Napoleon grins even wider when he sees the mark still planted on his sunbathing chair, snoring away and getting as red as Gaby’s bathing suit. Illya leads them further down the beach, to a mostly-sequestered cove. Napoleon spins and grins, pushing himself against the rocks and cocking his brow. He puts his arms behind his head and flexes, the cocky bastard, and Illya is completely struck by how gorgeous the man is.

 

He looks too put together. Illya wants to change that.

 

“Come here.”

 

Napoleon quirks an eyebrow.

 

“Make me.”

 

Illya surges forward and grabs Napoleon by his hair, forces him down to his knees. Napoleon goes with little more than a whimper and a sigh. His eyes are blown and he gazes up at Illya looking hungry and _relieved_.

 

“Finally, Peril I’ve been getting desperate. Do you know how many of my lovers I’ve had to conveniently fall asleep on before we really get going? It’s beginning to affect my reputation, darling.”

 

“Shut. UP.”

 

“Make. Me.”

 

Illya growls and doesn’t think, a haze of lust directing his actions. He shoves Napoleon’s face into the crotch of his much more modest swim trunks, but there’s no hiding his erection. Later, he’ll credit it to the adrenaline rush. Now, he just holds Napoleon by the nape of his neck and _thrusts_. It doesn’t matter that there’s fabric in the way, it doesn’t matter his frantic motions don’t give Napoleon the true opportunity to work him properly.

 

Because it’s too _good_. Napoleon below him, moaning and madly licking at whatever part of Illya’s cock he can get in his mouth as Illya madly presses his Napoleon’s face into his crotch. Napoleon gives a bigger groan when Illya growls louder at him when Napoleon goes to get a hand around his own cock. Illya twists his hair harder and Napoleon cries out against him, and Illya feels the vibration on his cock.

 

It’s an amazing power rush, the sight of Napoleon Solo, man of charm and thief of hearts, his Napoleon, undone below him. Worshipping him and his cock, eager for whatever Illya will give him. Illya can barely breathe with what he is feeling.

 

Then Napoleon starts to writhe erratically below him, and Illya _knows_ that Napoleon is going to cum if he keeps this up and the thought sends _fire_ through his bones and Illya-

 

Illya shoves Napoleon off of him.

 

His partner makes an undignified “oof” as he falls to the sand below him, and Illya stands stunned above him. He- they almost-

 

“What the hell is your problem, Peril?”

 

Napoleon is standing before him, in his face and still half hard. His hair is mussed and sticking up at various angles, and he is flushed and slightly shiny with sweat. He’s so beautiful Illya’s heart breaks with wanting. Wanting for something he can’t have. What he wants from Napoleon, even if it was allowed in today’s society, isn’t fair to Napoleon. He wants to _possess_ the man in a way that terrifies even Illya himself, want to sink his claws into the man’s skin and soul and never let go.

 

How can he ask Napoleon for everything when he knows so very well that Napoleon Solo is a man who never plays every card in his hand, let alone lets his mask drop for more than one minute at a time around anyone?

 

It’s a ridiculous fantasy, and Illya knows better.

 

“I- I am sorry, Napoleon.” Illya says, truthfully. Napoleon goes from outraged to quiet and thoughtful. He stares at Illya for a long time, and Illya lets him look. He can’t begin to hope to explain what he’s feeling in words, so he hopes Napoleon can see what he means.

 

Napoleon must see something, because he says softly a few minutes later,

 

“I don’t know what you’re after, Illya. I need you to tell me, or I can’t give you what you want. Illya, please, just talk to me.”

 

“I will not beg you, Napoleon!” Illya erupts, and Napoleon’s eyes widen.

 

“Illya, I never-”

 

“You do not ever! You will not ever!” Illya gestures dismissively in between them before marching off, furiously heading back to the direction of the hotel. Gaby needs a drink, and so does he.

 

Napoleon stands quietly watching him go. He has no idea what just happened, but he’s clearly misjudged whatever is going on between them. Something in his beloved Peril is not right, and whatever game they’ve been playing, they’re both clearly using different rule books.

 

Napoleon runs his hands through his hair and sighs. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but then again that’s never stopped him with dealing with Illya Kuyakin. He swallows his own sting of rejection and focuses on the hurt in Illya’s eyes, thinking as he makes the long trudge back to Gaby about how he’s going to win the Russian over.

 

If he even can.


	2. Electric Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya has a revelation at Napoleon's expense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ELECTRICUTION TORTURE
> 
> Sorry... enjoy

The mission goes tits up from there.

 

It’s all Illya’s fault, which frustrates him to no end. He cannot even pretend now to be normal around Napoleon. His hands twitch so much he must shove them into his pockets whenever he’s in the room with the American. It’s gotten so bad that Gaby actually takes him aside and asks if he wants _to talk_.

 

Illya is quite certain he has never been so embarrassed in his entire life.

 

The shit storm does not end there, however. Napoleon and Illya are thrown out of the apartment by Gaby and sent on a tracking mission, following the ex-Nazi orange man. Napoleon glides down the streets of Brazil, soft linens almost see-through under the bright sun. Illya feels like a hulking monster behind him, and his hands twitch even harder.

 

“Coming, Peril? Or will you just be skulking over my shoulder the entire time?”

 

“I do not skulk.”

 

“Oh, but you do. And quite well. It’s terrifically…. Intimidating.” The way Napoleon rolls the word ‘intimidating’ on his tongue makes it sound like pure sin. Illya’s scowl deepens.

 

“Oh lighten up, Peril. You need to learn to let loose a bit.”

 

At this Napoleon twirls and presses Illya gently with his hand until they’re hidden behind a wall. Napoleon’s eyes are sharp on their target, as the ex-Nazi has stopped and entered into an antique shop. Napoleon and Illya watch and wait for a minute, but Illya cannot really concentrate. He’s focused on Napoleon’s eyelashes, of all things, and the way they flutter against Napoleon’s cheek.

 

“What do you think, do we follow him in? It could be a trap, he may have spotted us a few blocks back when you were checking out my backside.”

 

Illya was wrong. _This_ is the most embarrassing moment of his entire life.

 

Illya snarls and lurches off the wall, fumbling towards the entrance to the shop. Anything to get away from Napoleon and his delicate eyelashes.

 

“Illya, wait-“ Napoleon hisses after him, but Illya barrels on. He stumbles into the shop, the chimes jangling above him and signaling his entrance. He sees the brim of the ex-Nazi’s hat in the far back room and fumbles after him, hearing the door jingle again as Napoleon enters, hot on his heels.

 

Illya whirls around a corner and is greeted by 10 henchmen, a smug ex-Nazi, and several expensive looking Ming vases. Napoleon barrels into his back a few seconds later.

 

“Ah, evening gentlemen. Seen any German scum around recently?” Napoleon quips, and Illya would roll his eyes if it weren’t unprofessional.

 

The ex-Nazi sneers and says, “Seize them. Make it hurt.”

 

Illya and Napoleon put up one hell of a fight, but several broken vases later Illya is distracted at a pivotal moment when one of the henchmen manages to smash an antique bottle over Napoleon’s head. Glass flies everywhere as Napoleon crumples to the ground. Illya feels sheer panic overtake him for a precious few seconds, and it’s enough for something blunt to hit the back of his head, sending him into unconsciousness.

 

\------------------

 

Illya wakes to the unfortunately familiar sensation of being tied up to a chair. His head is throbbing, but he isn’t seeing double, so there’s probably no concussion. That’s good.

 

The sight that greets him, however, is devastating.

 

Napoleon is seated across from him, and he’s breathing hard. He’s attached to yet another electric chair, shirtless this time. Illya’s heart simultaneously sinks and starts beating a mile a minute. He knows for a fact that Napoleon still has night terrors where he is back in Uncle Rudi’s chair, and Illya has woken him more than once when his screams become too loud for the rest of the hotel.

 

Napoleon gives Illya a tight smile, and that somehow makes Illya feel even worse. His Cowboy’s brave face is not very brave.

 

“Ah, you’re awake. Good. I was just about to re-introduce your partner to my colleague’s machine. I find it is marvelous for getting men to talk.”

 

“Fuck you.” Illya spits out, the venom in his voice surprising everyone in the room. His eyes do not leave Napoleon’s, and his arms flex uselessly against the ropes binding him. Napoleon quirks his eyebrow, and Illya wants to sob in frustration.

 

“How rude. Your partner, of course, will be paying the price for that.”

 

And then the awful machine is thrumming and Napoleon is jerking in his seat and thrashing, harsh scream torn from his throat and Illya is _useless_ in his goddamn chair. It goes on forever, and Illya is screaming along with Napoleon by the time the ex-Nazi turns the damn thing off. Illya feels out of control, flinging himself back and forth in the chair but the damn thing is metal, bolted to the floor and not budging, and he is hopelessly stuck.

 

Napoleon is panting but he has stopped screaming. Perhaps that is what calms Illya down enough to sit back in his own chair, chest heaving and wrists bleeding from the rope.

 

“The Red Peril lives up to his name. Barely even human, aren’t you?”

 

Of all things, _this_ is what Napoleon takes offense to. “You’re a small, squirrely little man with too much hair on his chest and not enough on his head.” Napoleon pants out, and Illya wants to cry. Why must he taunt the man?

 

“Why you vain, arrogant little shit- you’re going to beg me to kill you by the time I’m through!”

 

Napoleon bares his teeth at the man, and Illya is strangely comforted by the sight of the Napoleon Solo he knows- a ruthless thief, a soldier hardened by war and a man who has killed on orders. Napoleon gives a feral grin and leans in as much as his straps allow, voice lowered in a silky threatening tone,

 

“I. Don’t. Beg. “ Then Napoleon spits on the man’s shoes. He leans back into the chair and flexes his fingers, smirking.

 

The ex-Nazi curses at Napoleon and flips the switch, but Illya feels the air has gone out of the room. He’s going to have to watch his beautiful, foolish, perfect Napoleon fry alive.

 

“STOP! Stop, please, I beg you!” The dreadful whirring from the machine ceases, though Napoleon takes a few more moments to stop twitching. When he does, he has the audacity to gasp out,

 

“What the hell, Peril?”

 

“Shut. Up.”

 

Napoleon gives the barest of smiles, and gasps out a faint “Make me.” Illya almost smiles back.

 

“Willing to beg so soon? I heard Russians were tougher.”

 

“Stop, please.” Illya begs, and it’s so much easier than he thought it would ever be. For Napoleon, he realizes, he has always been willing to do anything.

 

“That’s touching, truly. But I’m afraid you have no information that I want. This, I do for pleasure.”

 

The ex-Nazi flips the switch again, and Illya hears Napoleon screams crescendo through the air. His vision descends into a sea of red, and the last thing he feels is the ropes finally give.

 

\----------------

 

When Illya has come to again, he is holding up a stumbling Napoleon as they are running towards a car, dodging bullets from above. Illya shoves Napoleon into the backseat and dives over him, fumbling with the keys from the console and finally starting the car. They peel out of the villa with a dramatic screech, but the bullets stop coming after a few minutes. Illya checks the road and is relieved to see they aren’t being followed, and then his eyes fall on Napoleon in the backseat.

 

Napoleon’s chest is heaving and his hands, for once, are shaking. But he meets Illya’s eyes in the mirror and smiles like the sun, and Illya finds himself smiling back.

 

\--------------

 

Apparently, Illya caved in the ex-Nazi’s skull on the side of his blasted machine. He tries not to let his surprise show when they’re given the final report by Waverly a few days later. Napoleon & he are laid up in the same hospital room, beds on opposite sides of the room while they heal. Napoleon’s wounds had been deemed ‘superficial’ by the doctors, but Illya knows better. Illya himself had been working though a minor sprain in his left pinky. From bashing in the man’s skull.

 

“Honestly, I can’t condone this level of violence by an UNCLE agent, but I must say the man’s demise has stopped the drug flow from this port thus far so… jolly good.” Waverly ends his report with a cheerful smile, and Illya suddenly desperately wishes he and Napoleon were alone again.

 

“Honestly, Waverly, I won’t apologize. I also think Kuryakin and I have earned a few days off. Torture does tend to take it out of a man, you know.” Napoleon grins cheekily, and Waverly shakes his head.

 

“Yes, yes, very well. Report back to the safe-house in 4 days for your next mission.”

 

Napoleon nods, grabs his tattered linen jacket & exits the room with a wave to Waverly. Illya follows, feeling less like a skulking monster & more like a faithful puppy. It’s an improvement.

 

At their old hotel, Napoleon drops all pretense. His shoulders sag as soon as Illya closes the door behind him, and Illya doesn’t hesitate. He’s through doubting what they both want.

 

Illya slowly walks to Napoleon’s front, takes in Napoleon’s sad and pleading eyes as he plants himself firmly before his partner. He opens his arms and engulfs Napoleon into a Russian bear hug, and Napoleon sags into his arms like all his strings have been cut. They stand there, swaying, Illya doing most of the work holding Napoleon upright. Napoleon allows himself to be comforted by the heat and heartbeat of someone he thinks he can let himself rely on. Illya allows himself to memorize the scent of a lover for the first time, to hope for more than a brief rendezvous.

 

Then Illya presses a soft kiss to Napoleon’s hair and begins to guide him towards the bathroom. While they were both somewhat washed at the hospital, Illya wants to wash off the past few days from their bodies.

 

He runs a tub of hot water and puts in what looks like the fanciest soap the hotel has to offer. Then he turns to address Napoleon, only to find his partner has undressed himself fully.

 

Napoleon stands there, resplendent as the steam rises around him in the room, swirling over his figure. He’s gorgeous, firm muscle and smattering chest hair, standing unabashed in his nudity. Though he cuts a bewitching figure, Napoleon is clearly not aiming to seduce Illya. He looks up at Illya, pleading and needy. Then he slowly sinks to his knees on the tiled floor, staring at Illya. Waiting.

 

Illya feels himself harden, but does nothing to alleviate his situation. That will be later- for now, he will care for Napoleon.

 

He guides Napoleon to his feet, then whisks him into his arms. Napoleon makes a surprised sound as Illya carries him bridal style all of two feet to the tub, and sighs in contentment when Illya lowers him in. Napoleon outright moans when he feels the temperature of the tub, and leans back, the picture of decadent relaxation. Illya smiles. Perfect.

 

Illya scrubs the fancy soap into the washcloth, then proceeds to trace the lines of Napoleon’s body with reverence. He massages whatever skin he traces as he goes, feeling the muscles of Napoleon’s body slowly unclench. Napoleon is a pliant mess in the tub by the time he is through, glistening with water and steam. His mouth has opened a little, and Illya hesitates. This would be the first time he would initiate something _purposefully_ sexual with his partner, and for him there is no going back.

 

“ _Illya_ …” Napoleon whispers, and Illya closes his eyes at the longing in Napoleon’s voice.

 

“Illya… _please_ …I want it… I want _everything_.”

 

Illya smiles at the greed that so defines his partner, and slips his thumb into the side of Napoleon’s hot, open mouth. He tilts Napoleon’s head up gently, and gazes down at his lover. Napoleon shivers at the intense lust in Illya’s eyes and gives an involuntary suckle at Illya’s thumb.

 

“You want it? You have to _beg_ , Cowboy.”

 

Napoleon grins around Illya’s thumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGERRRRRR
> 
> Epilogue is written in my head, just needs to be on paper! It will be a continuation of what was started in this chapter ;)
> 
> Follow me on tumblr!
> 
> http://versus21.tumblr.com/


	3. Call Me The Titanic Cause My Ship Is Sunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Porny Conclusion!

 

Napoleon feels blissful as Illya helps him out of the tub and dries him off with a fluffy, light blue towel. He’s wrapped up tight and he feels warm, safe and cuddled. He feels treasured.

 

Napoleon already knows he’ll never get over Illya’s hands on his body. He already feels the imprint of Illya’s hands on his person, on his _soul_. Even though he’s in a floating state as Illya once again picks him up and carries him to the bedroom, Napoleon feels unexpectedly restless. As Illya cradles him in his arms, he can’t understand why.

 

Illya gently turns him over so that Napoleon is lying on his stomach over Illya’s lap. Illya begins to caress and rub Napoleon’s shoulders, moving slowly and sensually. Illya uses some sort of oil on Napoleon’s back, and Napoleon genuinely feels he could not move his limbs if someone put a gun to his head. Illya’s large hands paw and press the muscles of his neck, his shoulders, then down his flanks and spine. By the time he reaches Napoleon’s firm buttocks, Napoleon is undulating his hips in small, subconscious movements over Illya’s own impressive erection.

 

Napoleon is suddenly painfully aware of his own erection when Illya’s hands begin to knead his butt cheeks while simultaneously his own cock brushes against Illya’s. Napoleon is all too ready to begin moving, but he has the reflexes of a lazy cat at the moment. Illya seizes his advantage.

 

Illya moves quickly, for while Napoleon has been lulled into a soft haze of lust, Illya has been fueling his own raging inferno of desire. All of his senses are honed to Napoleon and Napoleon’s skin, his eyes, and his unfairly perky ass. When he feels Napoleon begin to stir once again, he doesn’t hesitate to grab Napoleon by the back of his neck and _squeeze_.

 

“Don’t. Move.” Illlya rasps, and he’s shocked by the grit in his tone. They’ve barely even begun. Beneath him, Napoleon shivers and goes still. Illya begins to caress Napoleon’s ass again, and revels in Napoleon’s controlled, even breathing.

 

Then, without warning, Illya’s hand comes down firmly on Napoleon’s right butt cheek. It bounces under his palm, and the resounding _crack_ makes Illya’s hips jerk up. Napoleon goes tense and groans, loud and low. Illya says nothing. He can’t- he can barely fathom that this is happening. He goes back to gently caressing Napoleon’s ass and traces the pink form of his handprint. Then he lets his hand fly.

 

Luckily, Napoleon doesn’t move too much. His sprained pinky can handle the strain of holding his lover down, and besides, Napoleon isn’t trying to get away from the spanking.

 

He’s leaning _into_ it.

 

He’s pressing his ass up and shuddering with every slap, and there are a few tears at the corner of his eyes but he’s still humping at Illya and his cock. Illya doesn’t count, just continues until Napoleon’s ass is warm and red, his own hand marking the entire hunk of flesh. He doesn’t stop until Napoleon _begs_ \- not for him to stop, but for _more_.

 

And Illya can’t- he still can’t believe this is _real_ , the intensity of the moment. He feels as if he’s seeing color for the first time, and it’s blinding. He hastily rubs more oil on his fingers and urgently but thoroughly begins to finger Napoleon open. And oh, Napoleon takes to it beautifully, opening up under Napoleon with urgency and heat.

 

Illya cannot believe how tight Napoleon is. Hasn’t he-

 

“Have you done this before, Cowboy? You are virgin tight.”

 

“Nnnngghh not- been awhile.”

 

“Hard to believe. Your hole is hungry, it sucks my fingers in. That desperate for me?”

 

“Yyesss, Illya, _please_. _Please_ fuck me, I fucking need you inside me.”

 

Illya smacks Napoleon’s ass hard, and adds his ring finger to the next thrust.

 

“That’s it, that’s it. Sounds so good when you beg for me, Napoleon. Who else do you beg for?”

 

Napoleon doesn’t respond, clearly lost and full as Illya’s fingers continue to press into him. For some reason this drives a flash of fire up Illya’s spine, and he wrenches Napoleon up by his hair, arching his back and pinning Napoleon- one hand in his ass, one hand tangled in his hair.

 

“ _Who_?”

 

“Ffffffuck, you! Only you, Illya, only you I swear it!”

 

“I don’t believe you, Americans always lie.”

 

“No! NO Illya, please, please I swear, I’ll prove it to you just let me. Please, _darling_.”

 

Illya feels his head is swimming in a fog. Having Napoleon, this beautiful, selfless man beneath him, and writhing on his fingers is an almost out-of-body experience. He’s only focused on Napoleon and the upturn of Napoleon’s mouth, open and moist from saliva.

 

Illya doesn’t know exactly what happens, but when he comes to he is straddling Napoleon on the bed, feeding his lover his cock. His hand encompasses the back of Napoleon’s head, keeping it up and forcing it onto his cock. Napoleon is looking up at him, tears and saliva flowing down his cheeks and chin.

 

He looks like he’s worshiping. He looks like he’s in love.

 

Illya feels a piece of his heart crack, and his thumb brushes a stray tear from Napoleon’s cheek, feels his lover moan around his cock.

 

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers to Napoleon, and Napoleon jerks under him. Illya smiles softly, and regretfully takes his cock out of Napoleon’s mouth. He shushes Napoleon with a kiss, and moves quickly down Napoleon’s body. He lifts Napoleon’s legs onto his shoulders, and lines up with Napoleon. Before he completes the act, however, he leans forward and grabs Napoleon by the chin.

 

“Once we do this, there is no going back. Not for you, not for me. There is only us, you understand?”

 

Napoleon smirks, eyebrow quirked. Then he nods, and sucks Illya’s thumb into his mouth.

 

“It’s always been just us, darling.”

 

Illya exhales shakily and nods. He places his hand on Napoleon’s broad shoulder, gripping tightly as he sinks into his lover’s tight, wet heat. His mouth falls open but he can’t make a sound. There’s sparks and shimmers of pleasure racing up his spine, and he knows this is going to be the kind of coupling that changes his life, that bonds him irrevocably to this being below him.

 

He also knows this is going to be quick.

 

He hopes that one day, in the future, he will have more control. That he will be able to take his time worshipping Napoleon, mapping his lover’s body with his hands and tongue, bringing him to heights of pleasure so high that Napoleon will never be happy with anyone or anything else, even his own hand. He hopes Napoleon to become a creature of _need_ , to crave being under him the way Illya craves to possess Napoleon.

 

He has many hopes for the future. And as he looks into Napoleon’s eyes and sees his lover cum untouched below him, howling his name, he thinks he’s going to see every hope come true.

 

He falls asleep in Napoleon’s arms, running his fingers through his lover’s hair and whispering every dream he has for them. Napoleon grins wickedly back and whispers back a few of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! HUGS & KISSES!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr! I take all my suggestions there and love to hear from you guys!
> 
> http://www.versus21.tumblr.com/


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